


Shall We Not Revenge

by MlleMusketeer



Series: The Quality of Mercy [2]
Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Consensual Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Medical Horror, Plug and Play Sex, Rape Recovery, Slavery, attempted mercy killing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-22 05:03:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MlleMusketeer/pseuds/MlleMusketeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Do We Not Bleed, Optimus and Megatron have reached an uneasy agreement: a ceasefire until MECH is defeated. But millennia-old suspicions are not so easily set aside, and not all human evil swears allegiance to MECH.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Megatron stood in the light of an alien moon and trembled with rage. The image of Optimus’s port flashed again before his optics, extensive damage, healed damage—what it must have looked like when the injury was incurred must have been horrific. It was long untreated too, for such a pattern of scarring.

It was evil enough that the humans were using slave coding. That they had raped Optimus out of ignorance and carelessness was reason enough to destroy this foul little world. Perhaps Optimus thought it noble to so spare such beings. Megatron doubted it. What would happen to the next unfortunate to blunder into MECH’S hands? The humans were not fools, and would learn from Optimus’s escape.

He supposed there was a measure of foolishness on his part, too. His dismissal of humans and assumption that Breakdown’s capture was solely due to the mech’s own idiocy had allowed the humans the knowledge with which to commit such atrocities. No matter; they would be dead soon enough. Even Optimus was agreed with him on that count. 

He looked down at his hands, the little flecks of red paint on the tips of his claws. The world shifted in circles, it seemed. Ages ago, they had met, allied, loved, urged by the great injustices of their world. Then they separated and fought and, not so long ago, allied once again. For a short time, he had dared hope that Optimus was his, that the circle had closed and they would stand once again together against the world but it was not to be. 

And now, Optimus came to him full willing and asked his alliance. The circle started once again, and this time, would they succeed in halting it? Or would it continue on, and their next embrace be that of battle? More than he wished to admit, he hoped not.

A sound of engines jolted him out of his reflections. Megatron cocked his helm, listening. Small engines, probably human, and flying. He smiled viciously to himself in the darkness, his cannon humming to life.

——

Optimus had left Megatron well before planetary dawn, while the others were surely still in recharge. It was hard; there was an unaccountable feeling of safety in Megatron’s presence that he should not, should never, feel—but then again, Megatron’s recent actions spoke loudly enough on their own. 

He thought of the gentle, careful touches of those vicious claws, and stifled a surge of excitement. He did not have the luxury of naiveté or selfishness, and what he had just done had been motivated by both. 

But something in the back of his processor would not let it go. _What if you could end the war, tonight_? it whispered. _A ceasefire is the first step. No more deaths._

If he did trust Megatron, and Megatron betrayed him (as he was so apt to do), it would still cause more deaths. And they would be those under his command, the ones who trusted him. It was too far to go for his own foolish desires—

_Every sentient being deserves an opportunity for redemption_ , said that little voice, and there was no argument to be had with it, because he so desperately wanted it to be true.

He stepped out of the groundbridge lost in his own thoughts. How was he to tell the others about this? They would not take it kindly, Arcee and Ratchet in particular.

“Optimus, where have you been?” 

His helm jerked up. Ratchet stood by the groundbridge, one hand on the mechanism, worry in every line of his frame. Optimus found himself utterly lost for words. 

“I said recharge,” said Ratchet. “You need it, after what happened. What inspired you to go gallivanting off—” He cut himself short, looked at Optimus more intently. “Optimus, are you all right?”

“Perfectly well, old friend,” said Optimus, glad of a question he could answer. 

Ratchet looked at him with narrowed optics. Optimus decided to make the best of it. It might be easier to discuss this one-on-one with Ratchet, without the others butting in with their own objections.

“I have negotiated a ceasefire,” he said. “MECH poses a threat to all of us, and Megatron agrees with my assessment—”

“You went off to negotiate with Megatron, alone.” 

“Yes,” said Optimus. “I did not see another possibility.”

“I see,” said Ratchet, flatly. “And you did all this after he attacked you?”

“At no point did Megatron attempt to harm me,” said Optimus, keeping his voice steady despite a surge of irritation. He reminded himself that Ratchet was acting solely from concern, that he was perfectly in the right to do so. 

“Then what are those from?” snapped Ratchet, gesturing to Optimus’s shoulder. Optimus looked, and saw to his horror four neat, parallel scratches in the paint there. “By the Allspark, Optimus, I _told_ you, don’t exert yourself—Oh.”

There was a leaden silence. 

Optimus found there was really nothing more to say. 

Ratchet ventilated, resigned and deeply unhappy. “I see.”

Still nothing he could say. Ratchet’s attitude, upset and almost defeated, was painful to see. The medic visibly swallowed back several things he wished to say, then reset his vocalizer.

“How long do you think the ceasefire will last, this time?” Ratchet didn’t say more, but the emphasis on _this_ was more than enough to make Optimus wince inwardly. The last ceasefire had ended with him betraying them, after all.

“I hope the outcome will be better,” he said. 

“And why do you hope that? Because he’s fragging you this time?” Optimus shuttered his optics at the vulgarity, most unlike Ratchet, and Ratchet went on, “It’s not going to change _anything_ , Optimus. Megatron will take advantage of it, like he took advantage of your amnesia. Of Orion’s trust.”

_That_ stung. “He could have done far worse to me,” said Optimus.

“And?” 

“I believe that I may have misunderstood his original motives,” said Optimus. 

“Did you now?”

Optimus hesitated. Doubtless, Megatron would be unhappy to have his past with slave coding revealed—Optimus knew that much from his own feelings on the matter, and Megatron was more unreasonably private still. Ratchet just looked at him. 

“He did not take advantage of my condition,” said Optimus. “Indeed, he was revolted at the very suggestion.”

“So he could have done far worse and didn’t. How comforting.”

He wanted to protest that it was indeed comforting, but he doubted Ratchet would take that assertion as he intended it. 

“If slave coding was common on Cybertron and condoned by the Council, I think it throughly understandable that Megatron saw violent rebellion as the only solution.” He raised a hand as Ratchet reset his vocalizer, about to speak. “He was wrong, and the things he has done are terrible, but it makes it understandable. And there, _there_ , we have the basis for a truce."

Ratchet looked as if he wanted to say something, but before he could, Optimus's comm came to life, Megatron. 

_"I believe that I've found your humans again, Prime,"_ he said, voice filled with wry amusement. _"Assistance...might be of use."_

——

Assistance was not strictly necessary, of course, as he'd already seen off the humans, but they had managed to inflict surprising damage. They had not, however, expected him to continue to fight with one leg disabled—the result of a supremely lucky shot with some bizarre human weapon. 

And, of course, he could always call Soundwave for a groundbridge, but any weakness would only be further encouragement to various members of his crew's treacherous ambitions. Like Knockout. Soundwave _did_ have some very interesting recordings of the medic’s interactions with Starscream. 

He had other reasons, of course. Further cementing their truce, for one—a gesture of trust, though both parties would know full well it didn't really entail all that much trust on Megatron's part, as even with one leg non-functional he was more than capable of destroying the Autobot base on his own. 

Unfortunately, this ploy would probably mean involving the other Autobots. But the Autobots had one resource that he did not have access to, and that was human cooperation. Again, his forces were likely more than capable of dealing with both Optimus’s human friends and MECH at the same time, but this would vastly simplify things. 

And what better way to involve the Autobots than underscore the danger of the imminent threat? It would also show them that Optimus’s judgement was sound, which would mean they would be that much more willing to follow him without question--and as Optimus seemed to be remarkably willing if not eager to renew their close relationship, that would be all to the good. 

“We meet again,” he said as the groundbridge opened and Optimus and his pet medic stepped out. “The humans are gone. For the most part.” He looked at the remains of one of their helicopters pointedly; Optimus went to it and examined it. 

“It is, indeed, one of MECH’s,” he said to Ratchet.

“And armed with remarkably efficacious weapons. For a human craft,” said Megatron, and shifted his weight so that his unresponsive leg could be accessed more easily. 

Like any good medic, Ratchet couldn’t resist the opportunity to scan something. Megatron stayed still, smirking, as he did so. 

“The aftercharge indicates it was the same weapon that MECH has used in the past, albeit a glancing blow,” said Ratchet. “He’s telling the truth.”

“Because manufacturing a human machine to support my claims would be so much easier,” Megatron said drily. “Are we to sit about here all night, or begin negotiations?”

He was satisfied to see concern in Optimus’s optics, anger in the way he deliberately offered him a hand up, the fine tremor of his fingers, and knew he had his allegiance. 

Over his own rage, his own displeasure that he might need such assistance, his spark lifted. This was the way things ought to be.


	2. Chapter 2

Starscream was _miserable_. 

It had rained. It _was_ raining. He was covered in mud, and though he wasn’t anywhere near as vain as Knockout, it itched and gritted in the joints of his plating, and there were small organic things stuck to him, and he was cold and his tanks were nearly empty. He hadn’t recharged properly in ages because last time he’d tried he’d woken up to some huge brown organic creature _sniffing_ him. When he sat up, it then _leaked_ at him. Organic planets were so _messy_.

So when he saw a group of incredibly misguided humans try to attack Megatron, and, of course, fail miserably, the idea of obtaining allies temporarily overrode his common sense. They were obviously interested in Cybertronian technology. Perhaps he could strike a bargain.

He followed them back to their base. It was...small. Everything humans did was small. Everything on this Primus-forsaken Unicron-forged world was small. And sticky. And disgusting. And here he was, stuck in the middle of it. Why hadn’t he defected _earlier_ , on a better planet without so much _mud_?

Oh well. Time to make the best of it.

He managed to get a claw hooked around the door and pulled it a bit open. Not much of interest to see. Obviously, they were completely over their ugly little heads. Didn’t even have prototypes, just a few cables hanging from the ceiling and a lot of masked humans with guns. 

“What a quaint little setup,” he said, and enjoyed the expression on what was presumably their leader’s face. “Really, this is all you’ve managed? Tsk. I can help, you know.”

“Oh yes,” said the lead human, recovering its composure. “I know.”

The EM pulse got Starscream right between the optics. 

——

Ratchet wasted no time in getting Megatron installed in the medbay and then kicked Optimus out in no uncertain terms. Megatron had the brief amusement of seeing the last of the Primes slink out like a guilty sparkling before Ratchet turned on him. 

“What did you do to him?” he demanded. 

“And what would you mean by that, medic?”

“I checked him throughly for malicious codes,” said Ratchet, and reached for a medical-grade cable. Megatron focused on it, claws flexing. “I found nothing.”

“Then what is the point of this interrogation, doctor?” Outside, a voice rose, recognizably Arcee. The rest of the base was waking up.

“I found nothing,” said Ratchet, and reached for his medical port. Megatron shifted away so he couldn’t reach it. “But if you did anything, twisted the slave programming to your own ends, loaded something new onto him—Cease moving, slag you. It’s only a full frame scan to determine the extent of the damage.”

Megatron hesitated a long moment, then allowed Ratchet to attach the cable. “I did nothing of the sort,” he said. “It was unnecessary. _This_ is unnecessary, too.”

Ratchet turned to the monitor. “Then why?” he demanded. 

“Why, what?”

“Rescue him. Deactivate the coding. What was in it for you?”

Megatron snorted. “More than you know, medic.” He glanced at the monitor, and a touch of anger crept into his voice. “Though I doubt that will last much longer. I thought you were doing a full-frame scan, not looking at my coding.”

“I wanted to see if anything had been corrupted by the electromagnetic surge,” said Ratchet absently, his attention on one line of all-too familiar code. “Besides, it’s a standard component of a through scan. Any _competent_ medic would do as much.”

Outside the infirmary, a regular shouting match was developing. Unpleasant as Ratchet was, Megatron could not say that he envied Optimus just now. It was only justified. If he kept better control of his subordinates, he wouldn’t be being scolded by them.

Megatron clambered to his pedes and supported himself on the railing, all his weight on the leg that wasn’t buzzing and tingling just now. “None of my coding has been corrupted,” he said. “But you have all the explanation you need there.” He nodded at the screen. Ratchet turned to look at him. 

If there had been anything like pity in the Autobot’s optics, Megatron would have killed him on the spot. There was not. Only an understanding. Then Ratchet reached forward and removed the cable from Megatron’s medical port.   
“And what exactly did the _frame_ scan show?” said Megatron. 

“You’re fine,” said Ratchet. “The EM pulse was weak enough that only your leg was affected. It should wear off soon.” He went to the door. 

Megatron followed him, on the principle that Ratchet probably intended him to stay put. There was an embarrassing limp involved in that, but no matter. Things quieted down as he turned the corner into the hall, three sets of optics watching him with greatest suspicion.

“I believe the slave coding to be of the most common variety,” Ratchet was saying. “That is, it can be deactivated by the death of the designated… ‘master’, unless of course, the ‘master’ is killed by another, in which case the killer takes the ‘master’s’ place.”

Optimus met Megatron’s optics. Megatron gave a little shrug. 

“In any event,” said Optimus, obviously eager to change the subject, “tonight’s incident underscores that MECH poses a clear and present danger to both humanity and the Cybertronians on this world.”

“Especially to any...unaffiliated parties,” said Megatron. 

“Starscream?” said Optimus, raising an optic ridge. 

“And Airachnid,” said Megatron. “Either would be a resource that I would prefer to deny MECH if at all possible. Is there anyone you need to call back to the fold?”

Horror passed over Bulkhead’s broad face. “Jackie,” he said and vanished around the corner. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Megatron. 

——

Wheeljack was having a delightful time speeding somewhere north of Fairbanks, Alaska, his only concern in the universe the avoidance of the local fauna—something the locals called a ‘moose’. 

And then his comm came to life and ruined it all. 

_“Wheeljack, there’s been an emergency,”_ said Ratchet’s voice. _“You’re needed at base. Prepare to groundbridge._ ” 

“Aw, Doc,” said Wheeljack, but began slowing. 

_“Jackie, it’s serious,_ ” said Bulkhead. “ _Just get back here, alright? We’ll explain later.”_

“Oh? What’s so serious that you need me back there?”

They told him. 

Wheeljack slammed on his brakes so hard he wound up in the shrubbery. “ _What_?” He squeezed his optics shut, tried to wipe that mental image from his processor. After a moment, he said, “Alright Doc, ready when you are.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel vaguely as if I ought to apologize for Megatron's behavior in this chapter, but then again, he does have his reasons for being an insensitive slagger...

Agent Fowler and Wheeljack arrived at about the same time. Of the two, Wheeljack was the quieter. 

Optimus offlined his optics a long moment. If he’d been less self-contained, he would have groaned and put his helm in his hands. As it was, he turned down the sensitivity of his audials as far as it would go and waited for Fowler to stop yelling. 

At least Megatron looked as put out by this as he did. 

“—flipped your metal wig? How am I supposed to _explain_ this to the Pentagon?”

“It is a ceasefire,” Optimus said, before Agent Fowler could get the next ventilation in and start up again. “For now it is temporary until the threat from MECH is dealt with—”

“And what threat would that be?” demanded Fowler, talking over him. “You have been very vague with the nature of that threat. I agreed to wait until morning for the debriefing, but it seems that you wasted no time in informing _him!_ ” This with a rather rude gesture toward Megatron, who smirked. 

Optimus hesitated, choosing his words with care. “Megatron is here,” he said at last, “because he is the reason I am no longer under MECH’s control.”

Fowler stared at him, then at Ratchet. “Is this true?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” said Ratchet, and brought the slave code up on the screen. 

“You know I can’t read that,” said Fowler, exasperated. 

“It is slave coding,” said Megatron, and stepped forward to gesture at the screen. “That is the input-prioritization sequence; it calibrates the victim’s executive coding to a particular voiceprint. All input determined by that voiceprint is given top priority by the processor, overriding all other input: situational-response coding, frame- and sensory- input and the victim’s own kernel directives. The preceding sequence controls whether or not the code is active. This, being from a recent scan of Optimus’s code, is not.” He glared at Fowler. Fowler glared back. 

Optimus ruthlessly quashed the fear that rose in his spark, that Fowler’s government might become interested in that sequence, in reactivating the code. Harder to deny was the creeping discomfort that now everyone in the base knew what had happened. Knew what he still carried, quiescent and awaiting some small opportunity to again bind him. He wondered how Megatron lived with it.

“And MECH put this on him?” demanded Fowler. 

“Correct,” said Megatron. “The reason it is currently deactivated is my interference.”

Fowler looked back at Optimus. “Is this true?”

“It is,” said Optimus. “We are concerned that MECH may expand on this experiment. If that happens, both humans and Cybertronians will be at grave risk.”

“No shit,” said Agent Fowler, and Optimus wondered for a moment what exactly that second word was—it wasn’t present in his language banks. The sentiment, however, was perfectly comprehensible. 

“The logical,” and Megatron made a face at that, “course of action would be to move to eliminate MECH as soon as possible.”

There was a silence. Optimus kept his face blank. Despite all other considerations, the idea of intentionally setting out to eliminate a number of humans made his spark twist. He wanted an alternative. 

“I concur,” said Agent Fowler. “I’ll need to consult with my superiors prior to taking action. But I think they’ll agree that this is of utmost importance.”

“I would prefer to minimize the loss of human life,” said Optimus, because avoiding the loss of human life would be impossible. 

They turned to look at him, Megatron shocked, Agent Fowler with tolerant, if annoyed, understanding, Ratchet exasperated. It stung. Did they truly expect him to forsake all of his determination to preserve human life because of what this one group had done? They had to be stopped, that much was certain, but he would not participate in butchery out of a desire for revenge. 

Agent Fowler cleared his throat. “As this attack will be on a human target, a domestic terrorist group no less, we will _have_ to involve the United States military in some capacity, even if it is strictly observational. I will contact you once I have a response from my superiors.”

“Thank you, Agent Fowler,” said Optimus before Megatron could say anything, and turned and left to collect his thoughts. 

——

The human and Autobots watched Optimus go, and Megatron watched them. Even without his own experience in the matter, it was clear from their reactions that Optimus wasn’t quite himself. 

After a long pause, the human called Agent Fowler reset his vocalizer and said, very quietly, “That bad, huh?”

“Worse,” said Ratchet. 

A distinct pause, and Megatron glanced in the direction Optimus had gone, started out after him. 

“Megatron,” said Agent Fowler, and he paused and looked back over his shoulder at the tiny organic, optic ridge raised. Fowler shifted uneasily, and then said, “Thank you. Without your expertise—or assistance—”

“Optimus would not be here?” Megatron finished, amused at the discomfort thanking him seemed to cause the human. “I am well aware of that, Agent Fowler.”

And with that, he left them. 

He did not have to go far to find Optimus. He stood with his arms folded defensively over his chest, optics offlined, battlemask up. 

“I should suggest recharging soon,” he said, since it was the least threatening  thing queued for his vocalizer. 

Optimus shook his helm. “I have no desire to.”

“As it pleases you,” he said, and moved closer. Optimus onlined his optics. The battlemask stayed up. 

“What is it, Megatron?” The words lacked their usual edge. 

“I do not understand your reluctance to take human life,” said Megatron, and leaned back against a wall, making a pretense of not caring. “They do it enough on their own.”

Optimus let out a long ex-vent. “It is wrong to involve a species so vulnerable in a war they had no part in creating. They are innocent of our mistakes, and so should not suffer for them.”

“Innocent,” echoed Megatron, and a stir of anger coiled in his spark. 

“They are. Peculiarly so,” said Optimus and Megatron turned on him, holding a hand just above his interface panel, carefully not touching. Optimus made a sudden ventilation, stayed very still.

“Do you call that the action of an innocent species?” Megatron demanded. 

“Silas and his followers should not be taken as representatives of their species. We cannot judge all humans on the basis of the actions of a few.”

“I am not proposing that we hold the human species responsible for this,” said Megatron. “I am proposing we hold Silas and his followers responsible. Do you think that you will be doing the right thing in allowing them to live? How soon will they turn upon their fellows armed with their new slaves? This reluctance does neither us nor the humans any favors.”

“I know that,” said Optimus, and let out a long ex-vent. “But I am wary of excusing such a deed with the claim that it was necessary. We are giants on this world—we hold great power and we _must_ use it responsibly.”

“And this is irresponsible?” 

Optimus looked away. 

“Is it because of their size?” said Megatron. “Are you worried that it will be no more than the extermination of vermin, that they will be helpless before us? That it will be murder rather than a battle?”

A long pause, and Optimus nodded. 

“Because I doubt that will be the case. Humans are far less delicate than you would like them to be, Optimus. They are hardly the sweet innocent things you seem to think them. They will fight, and if we lose,” unlikely possibility, really, but better not to mention that just yet, “they will show us still less mercy than I would them. I, after all, would merely kill them.”

“Forgive me if I am hesitant,” said Optimus, an edge to his voice. “Our values are not the same.”

“Agent Fowler and his government have asked for your assistance,” Megatron went on, ignoring him. “It would, quite possibly, save many of their lives.”

“Enough,” said Optimus. “I will decide on my own, _without_ you feeding me excuses.”

Megatron growled. He’d forgotten how slagging _stubborn_ Optimus had always been. “Are you _glitched_ , Optimus? After all they did to you, you still defend them? Why?”

“Precisely because of what they did to me, I must be sure that I am not allowing my personal anger to guide my judgements.”

Megatron stared at him a long, long moment, shook his helm, and stalked off. It was useless. The Matrix must have fried his processor. No one could be that self-sacrificing and still be _sane_.

——

Optimus stood and focused on evening out his ventilations. However much danger MECH represented, the idea of attacking them felt like revenge, and it felt wrong. It had been easy to bargain with Megatron in the abstract, offer MECH as a common enemy, but when regarded with a passionless optic, it was still murder. Humans stood little chance against Cybertronian attack, he knew that much. 

And there was a great reluctance in his spark to encounter Silas again. He knew the code was deactivated, but there was still a lingering fear that he would hear that voice again and be its slave. 

The thought made his tanks lurch. He clenched his hands and forced himself into some semblance of calmness, purposefully directing his thoughts away from that idea. 

_No one else should have to suffer this._ The thought came from the part of his processor tied inextricably to the Matrix, trailing the associated coding, glyphs demanding his service, his protection. _Autobot or Decepticon, no one._

He thought of Ratchet, Arcee, Bulkhead, Bumblebee, Wheeljack, flinched from the possibility of one of them falling into Silas’s hands. 

_Is this why Megatron saved me?_ he wondered. For he found himself similarly revolted at the idea of even a Decepticon at Silas’s command. He was a Prime, and even Megatron was Cybertronian, one of his people. 

So it came to this. To protect his people, discharge the duty with which an innocent Orion Pax had been entrusted, he would have to stop MECH. Stop foolish humans, guilty of a hideous deed—but still small, weak and defenseless. He knew where his duty lay.

It still did not feel right. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: flashbacks in this chapter.

Agent Fowler’s superior insisted on appearing in person the next morning. At least the kids were at school.  

The Autobots were polite, even Wheeljack, which must have taken some doing on Bulkhead’s part. Though he wouldn’t have admitted it willingly, Optimus found the new human, General Bryce, irritating, condescending, and altogether too eager to find problems with the current situation. 

Megatron wasn’t as diplomatic. Not even when introducing himself. 

“Megatron,” said General Bryce. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”

Megatron leaned in to regard the human more closely, optic ridges rising. “Really? I wasn’t aware of your existence,” he said. “Until now.” He grinned. The threat was obvious. 

General Bryce looked rather discomfited, but, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “Now about this proposal of yours…”

It took some time to get it through General Bryce’s processor that, as a sovereign _planet_ , the Cybertronian command (meaning himself and Megatron) was perfectly entitled to eliminate an entity unaffiliated with the United States government on much the same principles as the United States had authority to assist in anti-terrorist operations in other countries on Earth. 

That didn’t please Bryce much. But there wasn’t much he could do about it, either. There was a distinct moment when he conceded, a slump of shoulders under the stiff uniform. It was going well as could be expected, better, in fact, because of Megatron’s contributions. Optimus allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. 

A moment was all he got. 

“Well, soldier,” started General Bryce, and Optimus missed the rest of what he said, lost in a sudden surge of horror. 

_Humiliation. Can’t move. Can’t close—Primus no stop they cannot mean to—_

_They know not what they do._

_They know not what they—_

_Agony. Gasping static, tanks lurching, can’t move, invaded, helpless—no no no stop—_

_“Welcome to MECH, soldier.”_

“Optimus?” said Ratchet’s voice, and he came back to himself, shook his helm. Looked up at General Bryce. 

“I believe I have left that particular datapad in my living quarters,” he said, forcing his voice even and calm, something approximating his usual tones. “I beg your pardon, General Bryce.” He turned and strode briskly from the room, only stopping when he was well away. Then he raised his battlemask and offlined his optics and stood still where he was. 

_I am free_ , he told himself. _They will not have me again. I am free, and among friends._ And it was not enough to still the crawling itch of fear, of disgust. He wished he could reach into his processor, tear away the weals of the slave coding, excise it like a bad weld. 

“Optimus?” It was not Ratchet’s voice, but Megatron’s. Optimus froze, unsure of what to say. He turned his head, realized too late that he had left his battlemask up. 

Megatron reached to put a hand on his shoulder, hesitated. “May I?”

He nodded. 

“The human should watch its forms of address. We outrank it, after all,” said Megatron. His hand rested heavy and comforting on Optimus’s shoulder, and it was all he could do not to lean into that touch, something decidedly not alien. 

“No doubt General Bryce is trying to remind us of his authority, such as it is,” Optimus managed. 

“What authority?” said Megatron, drily. 

He retracted the battlemask, hid a smile behind careful neutrality. “We are guests of his government,” he said. 

“ _You_ are,” said Megatron, and raised optic ridges at him with a smirk. He wasn’t sure what exactly that was supposed to entail, but was forestalled by an urgent ping from Arcee. 

_Optimus you’d better get back here. General Bryce is being...difficult._

He sent her an acknowledgment. 

A second ping added, _Quickly. Ratchet’s battle protocols just onlined._

——

“And,” said General Bryce, utterly unaware of the general unease that had pervaded the room—hell, thought Agent Fowler, even _he_ had picked up on that, and he was just as human— “we will, of course, want a copy of the code for research purposes.”

Fowler had not expected that particular statement to be met with any kind of enthusiasm. Neither had he expected this nasty a reaction. 

Plating bristled. The mood of the room shifted from uneasy to tense to crackling with restrained rage, and somewhere, there was a faint, growing hum—someone, impossible to tell whom, had activated their battle protocols.

“General Bryce—” he started, and General Bryce ignored him completely. 

The man had to be _blind!_ Fowler knew the ‘bots, and the room crackled with anger, even Bumblebee and Bulkhead’s optics gone flat and enraged. Arcee, at the edge of the group, was not as restrained, wings up, mouth twisted in a snarl. 

“No,” said Ratchet. 

Bryce wasn’t picking up any of the cues. “I understand that this is a sensitive subject, given your leader’s recent experience, but that information is necessary to national security. In the interests of cooperation between our people, I must insist.”

A second hum joined the first. Wheeljack’s battlemask slid over his face. 

“General Bryce,” said Fowler, trying to signal _killing the visiting general is NOT a good plan, guys!_ at the bristling Autobots as best he could without indicating to Bryce exactly how worried he was, “Just...let this one go, sir? It’s a...culturally sensitive topic.”

Bryce gave him an utterly confused look. “Is there a taboo against—”

“Uploading code onto an unwilling subject?” said Ratchet. “Yes. There is. Much as you organics have taboos against exchanging bodily fluids with an unwilling partner.”

There was a distinct silence after that. 

“You mean it’s the equivalent of—”

“Yes,” snapped Ratchet. “Sharing code is a deeply intimate act, General Bryce, and even more private.”

Bryce was an _idiot_. “But surely, you can see the necessity of having some sort of weapon—if something were to happen to the Autobots and we found ourselves facing Megatron alone—”

“If you take that code,” said Ratchet, and there was a very dangerous note in his voice, one Fowler had never heard before, not even when Optimus had been lost to Megatron, “and upload it onto so much as a _scraplet_ , we will interpret that as an act of war, do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Are you qualified to make such an assertion?” 

“Optimus will back me up on that,” said Ratchet, hands clenching. 

“As will I,” said a voice from the doorway. Megatron had returned, Optimus behind him. “In fact, I do not think I would merely interpret it as an _act of war_ , but an invitation to reduce your planet to slag.”

“General Bryce, sir,” said Agent Fowler, “Now that you’ve condoned the mission, I believe it might be best for me to work out the particulars of the operation, given my prior experience in coordinating military operations with the ‘bots. This discussion may be best conducted after the mission is completed.” 

General Bryce gave him a long look. Agent Fowler pasted his best stupid-obedient-grunt expression on his face and looked back with patent innocence. 

“As per your orders sir,” he added. 

“Very well, Agent Fowler,” said General Bryce. “I hardly need to remind you that you may make no binding diplomatic agreements?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” said Agent Fowler. “I’m not qualified to do your job, sir.”

Bryce hesitated again, then nodded, and left without so much as a salute. The elevator door swished closed. Fowler waited until the car had started up the shaft and then turned to the ‘bots, unsure of what to say. 

Plating settled. Weapons powered down. 

“Any possibility of banning him from the base or am I being too hopeful?” asked Arcee. 

“No possibility whatsoever,” said Fowler, and sighed. You weren’t supposed to apologize for your superior officer, but he had the feeling that they’d have a diplomatic explosion on their hands otherwise. _That bad, huh?_ he'd asked. _Worse_ , Ratchet had said, and Fowler’s stomach turned. He was sure that Bryce and the rest of the folks back at the Pentagon wouldn’t care about Cybertronian pain. Never mind that Optimus had saved all their asses at least a dozen times in the last year alone. A lot of the brass were nervous as hell about him and if they had a way to ensure that he’d not be a threat… 

He stopped that thought. It led bad places. 

But he couldn’t meet Optimus’s eyes. 

“General Bryce intends to allow us to conduct the operation with Agent Fowler as an observer,” said Ratchet, stiffly. “Human interference will be kept to a minimum.” 

_Until it comes time for the cleanup_ , thought Fowler, unhappily. 

Megatron snorted, a sound like a dump truck going terribly wrong. “And what about afterwards? We cannot allow the humans to get their hands on any of the slave programs. The human general has made that abundantly clear.”

“The coding is a weapon,” said Optimus. “Our treaty with Agent Fowler’s government explicitly states that we are not obliged to turn over Cybertronian weaponry.”

“Thing is, it isn’t quite weaponry,” said Agent Fowler. “At least, enough so that the lawyers could make a convincing case otherwise—and if Silas and company have _tampered_ with it, it means that it may be considered, at least in human courts, human technology, which you may then be ordered to return to us.”

There was dead silence. 

The robots looked at each other. Someone cleared their metal throat. 

“So,” said Wheeljack, “About the specifics of this little expedition…” 

And just like that, the subject changed, though there were significant looks being fired right left and center. Most of the time Fowler objected to the bots keeping secrets, but this time, he decided he simply would go with not knowing. 

“Yes, but how are we to _find_ them?” Ratchet was saying, more of an edge to his voice than usual. 

He cleared his throat. “Actually,” he said, “I’ve run an algorithm to narrow the placement of MECH’s base down. We’re looking for abandoned industrial areas remote from population centers. May I?” 

“Go ahead, Agent Fowler,” said Optimus, formal as always, and Fowler felt his eyes on his back as he brought up the map on the screen. It made the United States look like a checkerboard, but the little yellow areas of potential activity were far between, and easily searchable. 

“Well,” said Ratchet, looking at it, “That certainly _is_ a manageable search area. But what do we do if MECH is present at none of the locations?”

“Widen our search to wilderness areas easily accessible by road,” said Fowler. “They have to be pulling that heavy equipment somehow.”

“Sound reasoning,” remarked Megatron, and looked over at Optimus. “Perhaps you are correct about the use of human allies, Optimus.” 

Fowler wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or complimented by that, and elected to ignore it. “There are enough areas to search that it might be most efficient to split up,” he said. 

“However,” said Optimus, “that will place anyone participating in the search at grave risk of capture if they do come too close.”

“We could maintain constant comm contact,” suggested Arcee. 

“True,” said Ratchet, grudgingly. 

“I could always offer aerial support,” Megatron said. “It would be extremely unlikely that the humans would manage to capture both the flyer and the Autobot in question.” 

“With all respect, I’d feel safer _without_ a ‘Con breathing down my neck,” said Wheeljack, and glared at Megatron. 

“Same,” said Arcee. 

“Perhaps separate Autobot and Decepticon search parties might be best for the time being.” Optimus looked at Megatron, who shrugged. 

“Whatever puts your minds at ease,” he said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured that Ratchet, as a (field) medic, probably has his battle protocols set to online when a patient is directly threatened so that he can respond immediately and protect both the patient and himself.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There might be a pause in updating tomorrow, just so everyone knows. Serves me right for trying to post the fic as I write it!
> 
> Also I promise stuff will blow up in the next chapter. :)

The search took even longer than expected, and they were indeed down to scouring the wilderness areas accessible by road that Agent Fowler had spoken of by the time the kids took off on a school trip to San Francisco. Optimus suspected that Agent Fowler had a hand in that, and was glad that the children would run a far slighter risk of reprisals from MECH should things go badly. 

They had kept the plans from the children as best they could, with Megatron visiting only when they were in school. They suspected _something_ , of course, but had no concrete evidence, and the trip was an excellent distraction. 

Optimus wished to be out in the field with the rest of the Autobots, but Megatron and Ratchet had firmly forbidden it. Ratchet wanted to get a better look at the code. Megatron…

Optimus wasn’t sure what Megatron thought he was doing. Unless he had decided to become abruptly overprotective. When he tried to confront Megatron about it, Megatron had said something about the both of them being valuable enough to cause serious damage should Silas capture them, and he hadn’t formed a cogent argument against that before Ratchet overheard and joined in on Megatron’s side. He would have appreciated the gesture of cooperation far more had the subject been different. Then  Arcee decided to support Ratchet. 

Agent Fowler had agreed with them as well, and with Bumblebee and Wheeljack already scouting and Bulkhead determinedly not taking sides, Optimus found himself without much choice other than to bow to the common opinion. 

So he stood in Ratchet’s accustomed place, receiving reports and tracking signals and generally doing the sort of computer-work he disliked, and trying very hard not to let any of his frustration show. It was a necessary duty, of course, but he chafed at the idea that he was stuck here while others went into danger for his sake.  

He’d pointed out to Megatron that his argument cut both ways, that his loss would be as disastrous as Optimus’s own, but Megatron had laughed and said that he could fly, rendering Optimus’s concerns groundless. 

So to speak, he’d added, and grinned, Megatronus’s old humor flickering across the scarred faceplates.  

And so Optimus was stuck here. He could of course drive some of the local patrols around the base, leaving the computers to Ratchet, if he so desired, but he was needed here, as much as he might find the duty distasteful. There was, after all, nothing much better he could be doing. 

It was with some relief that he heard Agent Fowler’s voice behind him. At least he could be useful to someone—General Bryce’s concerns were still unresolved, and any opportunity to do something about it…  

“Optimus,” said Agent Fowler. His expression was far from conducive to peace of processor. “We need to talk.”

Optimus bent to Fowler’s level. “What is it, Agent Fowler?”

“Privately.”

Optimus hesitated a long moment. Private talks with Agent Fowler usually consisted of long drives with the human in his cab, where there was no one to overhear. 

Silas had been fond of such talks as well, though while Agent Fowler made a point of not touching the controls of his alt-mode, Silas had always ordered that Optimus let him drive. The human was comparatively small, but had seemed a loathsome weight. He would have preferred a scraplet in his place. 

He had assiduously avoided transforming since his escape. The memory of the long hours when Silas had ordered him into alt-mode and then ignored him still made ghosts of an ache play through his struts. The remembered humiliation was not so insubstantial. 

He looked down at Agent Fowler, whose expression had gone abruptly concerned. 

He could not let this rule him. He could not let Silas win. He deliberately activated the transformation protocols, suppressed the brief flare of panic. The sense of being cramped was horribly familiar, but he was in the base, the scents of oil and metal and the wash of fields a comfort. With a ventilation that was perhaps somewhat more ragged than his usual, he swung open the passenger side door.

“We can always find an alternative,” said Agent Fowler, not touching him. 

“It will not be as effective, Agent Fowler,” he said, and very carefully did not flinch as Fowler climbed in and fastened his seatbelt. That simple action made some of the tension ebb from his frame. Silas had not done that. 

He stayed like that for a few moments, but the weight was in a different seat and that made it much easier. No wrenching hands on his wheel. None of the strange floating helplessness of being involuntarily plunged into neutral between gears, engine and will forcibly disconnected from movement.  

A small human hand patted his dashboard, and though humans did not have fields he could all but sense Agent Fowler’s concern and nervousness. “Only if you’re sure,” the human said. 

He was likely looking at the empty driver’s seat. Optimus wasn’t happy that he’d betrayed that much. He started out of the base. “Do not be concerned about alarming me, Agent Fowler,” he said. 

“You’ve been through some pretty tough stuff, big guy. Wouldn’t want to make it worse.”

“I appreciate your efforts,” he said, and they passed out of the base into bright sunlight. 

“You’re not gonna appreciate this,” said Fowler. “I wanted to give you a heads up, though.”

“And what would this be?” Something in him relaxed. Everything Fowler did put him more at ease, differentiated him from Silas. 

“My superiors are nervous,” said Fowler. “How long do you think this ceasefire with Megatron’s going to last?”

Optimus hesitated. What he thought and what he hoped were wildly different things. 

“I do not know,” he said at last. “For my part,” and it was strange to articulate this, “I will do whatever is in my power to ensure it lasts.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Fowler. “The Pentagon’s got a twitch in their britches over the whole thing. Probably because of General Bryce. They don’t like the idea of your little war ending.”

“Why?”

“If you’re not occupied with pounding each other into the dust, what’s to stop you from turning on us?” Fowler shifted his weight and sighed. “They think as long as you and Megatron are preoccupied with each other, you don’t pose a threat to humans—but as soon as that’s sorted out, things are going to go downhill for us and fast.”

“We would never consider harming humans,” said Optimus. “And Megatron has no reason to do so, other than our current conflict. Humanity will be in _less_ danger if we make a treaty, not more.”

“That’s what I told them, but they’re too stuck on a _War of the Worlds_ mentality to listen. Add to that the current operation _and_ your refusal to give Bryce everything he wants…”

Optimus’s tanks lurched. “We will leave Earth rather than hand over the slave coding,” he said. 

“You should,” said Fowler, and it cost him to say it. “I don’t want to see that coding in human hands any more than you do, Prime. It would be taking weapons of mass destruction to a whole new level. But the fact remains that if the situation arises, I may be ordered to obtain it.”

“Your warning is appreciated, Agent Fowler,” said Optimus. “Is there any way that I might make your superiors feel less threatened?”

“Appeal to the UN for an impartial moderator for your negotiations with Megatron?”

There was a pause. 

“Forgive me,” said Optimus at last, “But I am not good at consistently interpreting human humor.”

“Wasn’t a joke,” said Fowler. “If you’re following human protocols for resolving the conflict, humans are going to be more sure that you’re _not_ planning to blow up the planet and enslave them.”

“It may make our negotiations more difficult,” said Optimus. “Cybertronian protocols for resolving such a ‘conflict’, as you term it, are complex and rigid, and I have good reason to believe that Megatron would prefer to adhere to every stipulation, should such an opportunity for settlement arise.”

“Trust me, human diplomacy is pretty complex.”

“But it is not ours,” said Optimus. “And there are specific difficulties that will arise in these negotiations that would not under any other circumstances.”

“Why so?”

“Because I am a Prime,” said Optimus. 

“I don’t follow.”

He ex-vented heavily and turned off onto a narrow dirt road, away from the highway. “The role of a Prime was one heavily debated even before the war,” he said. “Traditionally, the Prime was the political and religious leader of the Cybertronian people—a strictly civilian leadership. But I was never intended to be more than the hand of the Council in military affairs. There was some slight precedence for that; the Thirteen were, after all, primarily military leaders.”

“But that was long ago—and let me guess, the bulk of legal precedence comes from the period in which the Prime was a civilian position?”

“Exactly. Enough so that, if Megatron so wished, he could probably derail negotiations entirely on the grounds that I had severely overstepped the bounds of my position, and was, in legal technicality rather than actual fact, not qualified to negotiate when it came to military matters.”

“Then who used to manage military matters? Can’t you appoint someone to do that?”

“The Lord Protector’s post used to be military,” said Optimus. “And yes, I could appoint one—but regardless of whom I appointed to the post, it would entail...other things that I have no desire to imply.”

“Uh,” said Agent Fowler. “I don’t wanna know, do I.”

“You do not,” said Optimus, and ex-vented again. “My point is that you may assure your government that we will pose no threat to your planet during the ceasefire. We will be too preoccupied with legalities.”

“Wait,” said Agent Fowler, “Are you sure that Megatron will try that argument? After all, didn’t he want to become Prime? I can’t really see him being pleased with a purely civilian post.”

“That is one of the factors that bears consideration. Perhaps he will not use that argument, but the fact remains that it is an open possibility, and if he thinks it will serve him he will.”

His comm came to life before Agent Fowler could say more. _“Optimus, we just got an emergency squawk from Wheeljack. MECH.”_

“Thank you, Arcee,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “I require a groundbridge.”


	6. Chapter 6

“What happened?” were Optimus’s first words as they came back into the base, and he shrugged a door open so that Agent Fowler could exit his cab. Once the human was clear, he transformed and made his way over to the screen. The groundbridge flared open again, and Bulkhead and Arcee clattered out of alt-modes and charged forward, worry evident in every line of Bulkhead’s frame. 

“We had an emergency databurst fifteen minutes ago,” said Ratchet, and the bridge opened again to admit Megatron. “No message, just coordinates and heading.”

“Exactly what we ordered the search parties to do if attacked,” said Megatron, and leaned over Optimus’s shoulder to get a better look at the screen. “How far is that from human habitation?”

“Ninety miles from the nearest town,” said Fowler. “Figures they’d set up in Alaska.” 

“Is there any reason in particular this region would be a logical place for MECH to resume activities?”

“Icy cold, deserted, low population...yeah, a couple.”

“Jackie did mention that it was a really good place to drive,” said Bulkhead unhappily. 

“I have a satellite image of the immediate area,” said Ratchet, and brought it up. “There are structures here, here and here. The roads surrounding them appear to be in unusually good condition.”

“I think we found our boys,” said Fowler. “So what’s the plan?”

“I have two squadrons of flyers ready to depart,” said Megatron. 

“I still don’t like the idea of Decepticons behind my back,” grumbled Arcee.

“Would you prefer humans in your coding?” said Megatron. 

Optimus peered at the screen. “Ratchet, place the groundbridge here,” he said, indicating a break in the trees, hidden from the base by a rock outcropping. “Once there, we’ll separate and take the base from either side. Arcee, Bulkhead, you will approach from the south side. Bumblebee and I will take the north.”

“I’m coming with you,” said Ratchet. 

“We will need you here, old friend,” started Optimus, and Ratchet shook his helm. 

“No. Agent Fowler is perfectly capable of operating the groundbridge. He is not, however, capable of repairing injuries or identifying and scrubbing slave coding.” 

Optimus hesitated a moment, and Megatron placed a hand on Ratchet’s shoulder. 

“I will accompany Ratchet,” he said. 

Ratchet looked at Megatron. Megatron smirked. 

“Optimus, this isn’t a good idea,” said Arcee.

“On the contrary,” said Megatron. “Were our forces to be otherwise dispersed, we risk either an imbalance of firepower, or...personnel difficulties. With this arrangement, our medic is adequately protected and we are less likely to have an inter-factional incident.”

Megatron was correct. Optimus did not like the idea of Bulkhead, Bumblebee or Arcee left in his company, and if he and Megatron accompanied each other, it would leave the other teams dangerously vulnerable in terms of firepower.  He looked at Ratchet, who dipped his helm in a reluctant nod. 

“I concur,” said Optimus. 

“Good,” said Megatron, and turned again to the screens, spent a moment looking at the control panel, and then tapped out a sequence, opening a communications channel. “Decepticons,” he said. “Target these coordinates. And anyone who fires upon an Autobot will answer to me, personally.” He cut the channel and favored the gathered Autobots with a smile. “Enough of an assurance for you, Arcee?”

“It’ll do,” said Arcee.

Optimus stepped between them before it could go any further. “We cannot afford further delay. Autobots, roll out!”

——

They came out into gray and cold and dripping organic greenery. A squadron of Eradicons shot overhead, and Ratchet just barely managed not to duck. 

Megatron chuckled, but merely said, “The human base is that way.” 

“I knew that,” grumbled Ratchet, and started forward; he would have used his altmode, but for the the trees. 

Ahead, the sound of blaster fire mixed with human weaponry rose. Ratchet stepped into the shelter of the outcrop and checked his scanner again. “I cannot detect Wheeljack’s locater beacon,” he said, and peered around the outcrop again. Optimus came into view, charging a number of human vehicles. Ratchet let out a long mental ex-vent, wondering how many dents that was going to be responsible for.

“Hm.” Megatron moved past him, eyeing the human installation, then raised his cannon and aimed. The shot produced an impressive explosion. “Did that affect it at all?”

Ratchet looked back down at his scanner. “It did,” he said. “This way.”

Human ammunition pinged off his plating as they charged forward into the base, and as soon as he could, he transformed. A shot from the EM weapon that had damaged Megatron’s leg struck the ground by his left rear tire, and he sped up, giving the structure ahead of him a dubious regard. The armor of his alt-mode should be sufficient to break the wall--his scanners were picking up Wheeljack’s locator strongly enough to indicate that the wall was indeed very thin--but this wasn’t going to be enjoyable…

He plowed into the thin metal and out the other side, came to a screeching halt and stumbled into his root mode to avoid striking Wheeljack, who was shackled spreadeagled to the floor. 

“Good to see ya, doc,” he said, tilting his helm up to look at Ratchet. “Not a moment too soon. Think you could help me up?”

“A moment,” said Ratchet, kneeling next to him. Outside, another thump announced that Megatron was indeed occupied. “I will need to examine your coding first.”

“They didn’t get that far, doc,” said Wheeljack, and shuddered. “Though it was pretty clear what they intended.” His optics moved to the side; following his gaze, Ratchet saw a cable hanging from the ceiling, the top frayed, its origin immediately recognizable. His tanks rolled. 

“Better to be careful,” he said, and extended a medical cable from his wrist. “I will be using the medical port on the back of your helm.”

“Fine by me,” said Wheeljack, and offlined his optics while Ratchet looked for any sign of slave coding. Satisfied that it was not in fact present, he turned his attention to cutting the shackles. 

“The gang all here, or did you decide to swing a rescue on your own?” asked Wheeljack. “Either way—”

There was an explosion, quite a large one, and Megatron roared with what sounded like delight. 

“The rescue is a coordinated effort, yes,” said Ratchet.

“Charming. One problem.”

“What?”

“They’ve got Starscream.”

Ratchet shuttered his optics in rapid bewilderment. “What?”

“They’ve got Starscream,” repeated Wheeljack. “And he _really_ ain’t himself.”

Ratchet said something that made Wheeljack’s optic ridges rise and activated his comm. “They’ve got Starscream,” he said, and got only a hiss of static. He tried again, met Wheeljack’s optics. “Communications are down.” 


	7. Chapter 7

Arcee and Bulkhead had no warning.

No triumphant shriek. No taunts. No clatter of plating. Just a sudden movement from behind a building and Bulkhead went down under a silent, desperate whirl of claws. Arcee sprang clear and fired at the mech attacking Bulkhead, and Starscream didn’t even raise his helm, didn’t snarl or whimper in pain or try to escape, only transformed an arm and aimed at Bulkhead’s spark. 

Arcee tackled him, sending him rolling off Bulkhead and to the ground, and still not a sound. She brought out her blades, and while he tried to flinch away, he kept attacking, optics wide. 

She pinned him with a foot on one arm and a blade at his throat. “Surrender, Starscream.”

Starscream should have surrendered. Starscream should have widened his optics and begged for mercy. Instead he tucked his chin down and struggled with desperate strength, and Arcee lost her grip on him and hit the ground, hard. She rolled to her pedes, gyros desperately trying to equillibrate again, in time to see Starscream jam claws into Bulkhead’s knee joint. Bulkhead yelled. 

She fired, clipping one of Starscream’s wings, and still he made no sound, turned on her and sent her flying into a wall with a kick. By the time she’d gotten up again, he was gone. 

“Optimus,” she said into her comm, “Starscream’s here.”

And had nothing but static in return.

“Scrap.”

——

Optimus and Bumblebee had found what appeared to be the administrative center. 

Optimus ducked back into the shelter of a building as an EM pulse surged past and dissipated against the asphalt. Next to him, Bumblebee made a rude remark about Silas’s progenitors, which Optimus pretended not to hear.

He activated his comm. “We require backup.” 

Nothing. He looked at Bumblebee, who said, _“Mine’s out too,”_ and spread his hands in a helpless gesture. Overhead, there was an explosion and a long scream, and they stumbled back and out of the way as the flaming corpse of an Eradicon collapsed the building. The resulting explosion lifted both of them off their pedes and Optimus flung himself into alt-mode to bleed off the inertia. 

“We must find the others,” he called to Bumblebee, who beeped assent.

A purple bolt slammed into the asphalt ahead of them and Optimus skidded to a halt. Megatron came into view, fusion cannon leveled, then paused, put up his cannon and looked as contrite as he ever could, which wasn’t very, and said, “Communications are down.”

“The fact has come to my attention,” said Optimus, returning to root mode. “Where are the others?”

“Right here, Optimus,” said Ratchet. “We’ve destroyed their computers throughly. Agent Fowler’s government will get nothing out of them now.”

“Where are Arcee and Bulkhead?”

“Haven’t heard anything from them,” said Wheeljack, looking worried. “Think we should go find them?  
“Yes,” said Optimus. “When you have, attack the central administrative building. Bumblebee will know which one it is. There may yet be copies of the code stored on computers there.”

“Got it,” said Wheeljack. 

“You too, old friend,” Optimus said to Ratchet. “Arcee and Bulkhead may require medical assistance.”

Ratchet nodded. 

“And what, pray tell, are we to do?” said Megatron. 

“Create a diversion.” 

“Excellent,” said Megatron, and powered up his cannon. “Lead on.”

——

“Found them!” called Wheeljack and Ratchet sped up. Arcee and Bulkhead were hunkered down behind a building, Bulkhead on his back with energon pooled around his leg, Arcee holding the humans at bay. 

Wheeljack transformed and fired on one of the two helicopters, missing but causing it to bob upward in an attempted evasive maneuver. Ratchet made for Bulkhead. Bumblebee knocked Arcee out of the way of an EM pulse. 

“Bulkhead’s hit,” said Arcee, unnecessarily—Bulkhead was powered down, the residue of the pulse that had knocked him offline still registering on Ratchet’s scanner. 

_“We need to move,”_ said Bumblebee. _“Optimus says we need to take out the administrative building. They may have copies of the code on those computers.”_

“And it might be the source of our communications problem,” said Arcee. 

“Bulkhead’s in no condition to be moved.” Ratchet ducked as another pulse hit the building above his helm.

“Bumblebee, Arcee, you two go,” said Wheeljack, and tossed Arcee a grenade. “I’ll stay here with the doc and Bulkhead.”

_“You’ll be scrapped!”_

“Yeah, well, Optimus and Buckethead can’t storm the joint on their own. You’re needed. Now scram.”

“Come on, Bumblebee,” said Arcee, didn’t wait for a response, shifted to alt mode and screeched around the corner, Bumblebee following her in a clatter of plating and a reluctant beep.

“Think we can drag him into a building or something?” said Wheeljack. “We could use the cover.”

“No,” said Ratchet. “Whoever did this hit a major energon line. I’m not moving him until I stop the leaking.”

Wheeljack looked back up at the sky. “Scrap,” he said. 

Ratchet said nothing. 

“They’re getting away,” Wheeljack said. “That’s two helicopters gone now—” He fired at one of the helicopters dogging them, hit it. It spun away, the humans leaping free as it went. 

Its companion leveled out, the EM cannon on its nose glowing, aimed directly at him. Wheeljack stared at it with the horrified realization that if he tried to dodge this one, it would hit Ratchet. 

And an Eradicon came screaming over their heads and crashed into the helicopter, transforming and ripping at the plating over the tail, and the helicopter spun up and out of control as the pilot tried to shake the clinging bot off. A second Eradicon fired on the third helicopter, which went up in a fireball. No humans escaped that one. 

The third came over the roof in a leisurely manner and transformed to land in front of them. Behind him, the second helicopter went down, the Eradicon using it to break his fall. 

Wheeljack shuttered his optics at them. “Uh,” he said. “Thanks?”

“Lord Megatron demands to know what is taking so long,” said the third Eradicon.

“Lord Megatron can wait,” snarled Ratchet, not looking up. “Bulkhead is severely injured—”

“Ease up, Contrail,” said the flyer who had shredded the helicopter. “We’re in deep enough scrap as is. Hey, medic, need help getting him into shelter?”

“Now that I’ve got that leak patched,” said Ratchet, getting to his pedes, “yes.”

“Lightwing,” started Contrail, but Lightwing gave him as much of a glare as he could manage. Wheeljack was impressed--he’d had no idea a visor could be so expressive. 

“You wanna have the slagging humans creep up on us while you bicker with the Auto-scum?” said Lightwing. “Yeah, didn’t think so. Watch our backs and shut the frag up.” 

“Just because the boss bots are playing nice doesn’t mean we have to,” said Contrail, but turned around anyway. 

“Wheeljack, your help would be appreciated,” said Ratchet. 

“Right here, doc,” said Wheeljack and, shouldering one of Bulkhead’s arms, said to Lightwing, “So, what else is going on?”

“Not the rustiest,” said Lightwing. “There’s one Pit of a ruckus going on in front of that administrative building, though.”

——

They made their approach as obvious as they could, making a frontal attack on the makeshift barricade that the humans had erected. Optimus, for the most part, aimed for the barricade itself, hoping to cause confusion and minimize human casualties. 

It worked. He saw a flash of yellow and blue in the back of the command center, Arcee and Bumblebee, and then a helicopter swooped down at him. He raised his weapons but Megatron fired before he could, and the helicopter went down in flames.

“Megatron, we must minimize the loss of human life!” 

Megatron shot him a brief, irritated look, and aimed another blast at the barricade instead of the humans. 

The administrative building exploded, throwing them both back a pace, and the humans behind their barricade broke and ran. 

All except one. Silas leveled a weapon at them, falling back step by calm step, and Optimus only just managed to avoid the blast. 

It made Silas laugh.

“Take care of him,” said Megatron. “I will capture the others.” 

Optimus nodded assent and started forward. 

He had already decided what he would try to do; Silas deserved the justice of his own species, and it was not Optimus’s place to carry it out. A second blast shook the ground, and Silas stumbled, fell, and Optimus caught him as easily as if he were one of the children. 

“What is it, Prime? Couldn’t face me on your own?”

Optimus said nothing. 

“I’m surprised you tried this,” Silas said. “I thought one of your core tenets was that you would not take human life. What brought on this change of heart? Afraid that the others would see you as weak if you didn’t take some sort of revenge?”

“This is not revenge,” said Optimus. “This is to prevent you from ever doing what you did to me to anyone else.”

“Oh, you’re too late for that,” said Silas. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

Optimus gave him a long flat look, and started across to the edge of the battlefield. 

“Don’t have the guts to kill me?” 

“You will stand trial and answer for your crimes according to the laws of your species,” said Optimus. “I do not condone extra-judicial killings.”

Silas laughed. “Do you imagine that I’ll ever see the inside of a courtroom, Optimus?” 

Optimus still said nothing. 

“All I have to do is offer them some technical assistance,” Silas went on. “Strike a deal. I bet they’d be happy to get their hands on our little breakthrough.”

The horror rose again, but he did not let it show, did not let his sudden uncertainty show. 

“I won’t go away, Optimus,” said Silas, and leaned on his hand as if he _wanted_ to be there. “I’m too useful. And you’re too weak to ever actually stop me.”

Optimus stopped where he was and looked down at Silas. 

Silas smirked at him. 

It would be so easy to tighten his grip and crush the human, and in horror he realized that it was indeed the only thing that would keep Silas from continuing his work. It would be the one way to keep every Cybertronian on this world safe. 

Something slammed into Optimus’s back, claws scrabbling at the hand that held Silas. A sharp point dug into the cables of his wrist, forcing his fingers open, and he rolled, raising an arm to protect his optics. 

“Starscream?”

Starscream looked deranged, optics wide, mouth a thin line, wings drooping, fine tremors running through his frame.  He slashed at Optimus again. Optimus caught his hand easily and Starscream wrenched away and stumbled back, rushed forward at a gesture from Silas, no grace in the movement, only an ugly jerky desperation. 

He fought like a mad thing, a whirlwind of claws, and in utter, unnerving silence. None of his usual snarls or threats. Even when Optimus landed a blow, there was no yelp, only a flinch and then a renewed attack. 

Movement out of the corner of his optic. Optimus looked. Silas raised a weapon, grinning, and he tried to step out of the way, knew it was useless. 

And something seized Silas and lifted and flicked him, almost casually, against the wall of a broken building. Silas hit with a cry. 

There was a tiny, wet crack. Silas slid to the bottom and did not move. 

“They are rather delicate, aren’t they,” said Megatron. 


	8. Chapter 8

Starscream stared at them, and slid down to his hands and knees. He shook his helm, looked up at Megatron, an expression of acute distress crossing his face. Then he bowed low, pressing the front of his helm to the ground.

Megatron took a step back. 

“You killed Silas,” said Optimus, quietly. “The slave coding that they used—”

“I know what the Pit-slagging code does!” roared Megatron. “Starscream, stop that immediately!”

“We’ll take you back to the base,” said Optimus. “We’ve found a way of deactivating the code—”

Starscream shook his helm vehemently, optics widening. 

“You want to get rid of the code, do you not?” said Megatron, advancing on him. 

Starscream nodded. 

“Then tell me why, exactly, we cannot deactivate the code?”

Starscream took a long intake of relief. “They changed it,” he said. “If you tamper with it, it will wipe my processor.”

“He’s not lying,” said Optimus. “The code—”

“ _I know what the code does_ ,” spat Megatron again, and leveled his cannon at Starscream, who shrank back, optics wide. “Rest assured, Starscream, that every last one of the humans who did this will die screaming.” There was a hum as it powered up, and Starscream stayed where he was, shaking. “Believe me, this is far more merciful than a lifetime of slavery.”

“Megatron, no,” said Optimus, and moved forward, helping Starscream to his pedes. 

“You would prolong his life, Prime?” demanded Megatron. “You would condemn him to a living Pit of servitude and humiliation? Millennia of slavery, inability to act on his own? There are far, far worse things than death, and _this_ is one of them! Do not lie to me, Optimus. You would ask me to do the same for you.”

“I would,” said Optimus. “But I am not Starscream.”

“You do him no favors by this,” said Megatron. 

“It is not your decision to make,” said Optimus, a note of steel in his voice. “It is Starscream’s, and Starscream’s alone. Tell him he may speak, and let him decide his own fate.”

Megatron gave him a long level look and said, “Starscream, you may speak.” 

“I want to live,” Starscream said, very quietly, and his hand tightened convulsively over Optimus’s arm, leaving scratches in the paint. 

“I want to live,” Starscream repeated, voice rising as he did. “I don’t care how slagging long it takes, there _will_ be a way to get rid of this Pitbound fragging code and I _will_ be alive to use it—and in the meantime, ‘ _master_ ’, keep the _frag_ away from me!”

“Where will you go?” demanded Megatron. “Into the human wilds? That’s been _so_ successful until now.”

“It’s better than staying around _you_ ,” spat Starscream. “Especially now that I have to obey your every command.” He released Optimus’s arm and stepped forward, snarling up into Megatron’s face. “After all of that humiliation, after being forced to serve some human’s whims, forced to silence, you think that I would survive simply so _you_ could terminate me for your convenience? You might say that that it was for my own good, _master_ ,” and Megatron actually _flinched_ at the word, “but I think it’s because the great and mighty Megatron couldn’t bear to own a slave. Doesn’t fit well with your determination to be the heroic liberator of Cybertron, does it.”

“It is fortunate that you do not wish to return to the _Nemesis_ ,” growled Megatron, “for even if you did, I would not tolerate your presence there.”

“I do _not_ ,” Starscream hissed, and turned his back on Megatron, eyeing Optimus with an evaluating light in his optics. 

“Well?” he said. “As a... _fellow sufferer_ , might I seek asylum from the Autobots?”

“Yes,” said Optimus without hesitation. Though this was Starscream, he could not be abandoned in his current condition. “We will do whatever we can to free you.”

“No less than I would expect,” said Starscream, and there was something a bit wrong with his smirk, a hauntedness in his optics, the way he kept an arm over his chest. 

_“Hey Prime,_ ” said Agent Fowler’s voice over the comms, _“you and your people need to get out of there. Government boys want to start cleanup._ ”

“Very well, Agent Fowler,” said Optimus, glancing at the administrative building. Whatever had been blocking their communications, Arcee and Bumblebee must have destroyed it. “I will request a groundbridge when we have contacted the rest of our team.”

_“You'll need to be fast,”_ said Fowler. _“They’re real antsy about this one.”_

“Noted,” said Optimus. “Ratchet?”

_“I have Wheeljack and Bulkhead and three Decepticon flyers with me,”_ said Ratchet. _“Bulkhead is injured. Not severely. Have you found Arcee and Bumblebee?”_

“Not yet,” said Optimus, eyeing the rubble of the base with apprehension. Surely they’d gotten clear of the blast… “Arcee? Bumblebee?”

_“We’re just fine, Optimus_ ,” said Arcee. _“Making our way back to you now.”_

Looking at what they had wrought, Optimus found the relief did little to soothe the misgivings of his spark.

——

“It will be some time before I have an idea of how the code works, much less how to safely remove it,” said Ratchet. “In the meantime—”

“Be patient and avoid Megatron?” said Starscream, mouth twisting. “What a delightful prospect that is.”

“Rest assured that neither Megatron nor I will use the coding to control you in any way,” said Optimus. It may have been far safer to give Starscream orders not to cause harm, to stay in the base, but on that point he and Megatron had agreed. The idea of actually _utilizing_ the coding was utterly repugnant to both of them. 

“How _very_ kind of you,” Starscream said. “The fact remains that this _happened_ , Optimus! At least _you_ had the satisfaction of _killing_ some of those responsible for your enslavement!”

Optimus looked at Ratchet, who raised his optic ridges and quietly left the med-bay. He turned back to Starscream. 

“It was a necessity,” he said, “to prevent this from happening again. And it shall not. Not to you, not to me, not to anyone ever again.”

“A pretty sentiment, Prime,” said Starscream, and looked down at his hands. “And unlikely. There will always be _someone_ willing to use such a weapon.”

“We shall ensure that such a weapon will never fall into their hands.”

Starscream ex-vented, long and heavily. “Did you get all of them?”

“The humans?”

“Yes.” 

“No. Some did escape.”

Starscream curled over himself, put his face in his hands. His wings quivered. “Frag it all to the Pit,” he whispered, looking abruptly small and broken. 

“We will be looking for them,” said Optimus, who knew better than to voice platitudes or assurances. “They are not many, and without Silas—”

“They knew,” said Starscream, and Optimus shuttered his optics in confusion. 

“Knew what?”

“They knew what they were doing, when they installed the code. I—I told them. They didn’t even look for the medical port.” He raised his helm and looked at Optimus. “They knew what they did and _they did not care_.”

Optimus could not meet his optics, did not know what to say. 

“You suspected as much, didn’t you,” said Starscream, very quietly. “I wonder how you can still defend this species, how you can tolerate your ‘human friends’.”

“The children help,” said Optimus after a long pause, because only honesty was appropriate here. “They and Agent Fowler and Jack’s mother are enough to give anyone hope for their species.”

Starscream snorted. “Forgive me if I find your sentiments...dubious.”

“You will not need to have any contact with them if you do not wish it,” said Optimus. 

“I am not as weak-sparked as all _that_ , Prime.”

“I would not take such a sentiment as a sign of weakness,” said Optimus. “However, I am glad to hear it; I would regret causing you unnecessary distress.”

“Hah,” said Starscream. They fell silent for a long while, not looking at each other.

Finally, Starscream reset his vocalizer and said, with his usual sardonic disdain, “Well, Prime? What exactly is there to _do_ around here?”


	9. Chapter 9

Megatron found Optimus in the medbay handing a stack of datapads to Starscream, and quickly stepped back out of sight. There was a brief, very quiet conversation, and then steps approaching the door. 

“Well?” he demanded of Optimus. “How is he?”

“As might be expected,” said Optimus.

“You cannot expect that to keep him entertained for long,” said Megatron. “He is both a fast reader and easily bored. He’ll have the base down around your audials within a week if he’s left to his own devices.”

“I hope that Ratchet will be able to find a project that will occupy his attention before his boredom reaches such a level,” said Optimus. 

Megatron snorted. “Indeed.”

They were silent a time, walking through the deserted corridors of Optimus’s base. High ceilings, bright lighting—so different from the halls of a ship, where energy conservation and structural stress thresholds dictated every detail of construction. 

“Megatron,” said Optimus, quietly, “have you wondered what we shall do next?”

Megatron paused. “Frequently,” he said. “As our reason for alliance has been eliminated, the alliance itself becomes somewhat less tenable.”

Optimus looked away, mouth tightening, and Megatron put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “For the moment, however,” and he reached into his subspace for the real reason he’d come, and placed the small cube of high-grade in Optimus’s hand, “let us celebrate. We have, after all, won a victory.”

“Is this—”

“Yes,” said Megatron. “It is indeed from Cybertron. The last of my personal store, in fact. Come, Optimus. We have much to discuss. Where might a mech get some measure of privacy here?”

“My quarters,” said Optimus, and started back the way they’d come. Megatron smirked and followed. 

Optimus’s quarters were even more barren than his own. There was a berth, obviously constructed out of what human supplies were available, and a crate that must have contained what few personal effects Optimus owned, its top covered in neat stacks of datapads. Megatron grinned at that; vast quantities of datapads, the one constant between Optimus and Orion, though Orion had never bothered to organize his so well. 

Optimus turned around and looked faintly apologetic. “I regret that it is not particularly hospitable.”

“No matter,” said Megatron, and took a step forward. Optimus considered him a moment and then moved deliberately toward him, still holding the cube of high-grade. Not enough on its own to overcharge either of them, but that wasn’t the point. 

Optimus opened the cube, offered it to him. Megatron waved it aside. “You first,” he said, and watched Optimus’s optics go wide as he sampled it. 

“It is...familiar,” said Optimus, as he handed the cube over, and Megatron laughed. 

“By which you mean I have as little taste in high-grade now as I did when we first met,” he said, and took a swallow, intakes and olfactory sensors burning pleasantly.

The corner of Optimus’s mouth twitched upward. “Indeed,” he said, but accepted the cube readily enough. 

They passed it back and forth until it was drained. Optimus’s hand frequently lingered longer than was strictly necessary on Megatron’s, and Megatron’s control over his field was not quite what it should have been—both pretended not to notice. At last, Optimus set the cube aside on the crate and reached for him, a deliberate touch on his forearm. Megatron moved into the touch, curled a possessive hand over Optimus’s shoulders, stroking a thumb along his neck cables. 

Optimus moved back toward the berth and sat. Megatron settled next to him, the beginnings of a charge humming through him. 

“I am glad that you took no harm during today’s battle,” said Optimus after a moment. 

“It would take far more than mere humans to seriously damage _me_ ,” said Megatron. 

Amusement flickered in Optimus’s optics, but he made no comment, moving closer to him. “If this alliance ends…” he started. 

“With Starscream in your care, it would be somewhat difficult to allow it to do so,” said Megatron. Optimus was running hotter than he did normally, but every line of his frame spoke of restraint and tension. “Now that Silas is dead, however…”

Optimus looked down. “I could see no other solution,” he said, very quietly, “and yet, with all he had done, I still regret it extremely.”

“Do _not_ waste pity on that human,” growled Megatron, and tightened his grip on Optimus’s shoulder, turning so he might look Optimus in the face. “Do _not_. After what he did to you, he does not deserve it.”

Optimus let out a long ex-vent, but moved closer to him. “After what he did to Starscream, I should not pity him.”

Megatron leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Optimus’s, which parted under his touch. He tried a gentle nibble and Optimus gasped and moved closer to him. He moved one hand to the back of Optimus’s helm, caressing. 

“I am still not sure it was right,” said Optimus when they parted. 

Megatron’s mouth twisted. “Knowing that something was right is a luxury,” he said, and shifted his weight, almost pulling Optimus into his lap. 

“I know that we have prevented others from falling to the same trap Starscream and I did,” said Optimus. “And prevented these humans from waging devastating war on their own kind. But the spark of me does not think we did a good thing today.”

“Why?” said Megatron. 

“They were such delicate creatures,” said Optimus after a long pause. “When I...when they had me, they needed assistance with such small tasks. They were so easily injured, and they were so little. There were enough of them that I was constantly in fear of treading on one—they had not the care that Agent Fowler or the children exercise. They seem so helpless.”

“They are capable of great cruelty nevertheless,” Megatron pointed out. 

“I would not have attacked had it not been for Wheeljack,” said Optimus.

“And for that attack, Wheeljack owes you his freedom.” 

“Yes,” said Optimus. “I am glad that he will not suffer what I did—but if it could have been accomplished without such a loss of life—”

“After all these millions of years,” said Megatron, stroking claws over Optimus’s helm, “you are still the idealistic one. I had thought that beaten out of you by the war. You have certainly acted ruthlessly enough before.”

“From necessity,” said Optimus. 

“Indeed,” said Megatron. “Had you made such a claim as little as a solar cycle ago, I would have not believed you. Now…”

“You do?” Optimus reached out and laid a hand, palm flat, on Megatron’s chest, over the Decepticon insignia there. “I mourn the loss of every spark in this war. The Matrix would hardly allow otherwise. The Decepticons are as much my people as the Autobots, and there is so much energon on my hands, of _my people’s_ energon. If it were not for the sake of the planets you threaten, if it were not for the sake of the lives of those who follow me, if it were only my life, I would have surrendered millennia ago. But I had a responsibility to those I lead, and you have done such things that I feared you would not stop with our destruction, but turn upon innocents as well.”

“They were hardly innocent,” said Megatron. “They had made their allegiance clear.”

Optimus gave him a long, unreadable look, and drew away. Megatron did not reach for him. 

“Are we to continue this ceasefire?” Optimus said after a while. “Or are we simply going to allow ourselves to slip back into war? It would certainly be the easier option.”

Megatron shuttered his optics, nonplussed. “Easier?” 

“Easier. Instead of finally negotiating a treaty. Instead of facing each other and all we have done, we may simply choose extinction. For that is what I see in our future if we continue down this path.”

Megatron huffed out an ex-vent. “Perhaps it would be that way for _your_ side, Prime. The Decepticon population is well within safe parameters.”

“But will it remain so after you eliminate us? Think of how many the conflict on this one planet has cost you.”

Megatron fell silent at that. 

“Certainly, it would be _easier_ to simply keep on as we have for so many years. But neither of us have been fond of doing things easily.”

The laugh was entirely inappropriate, given how aggravating Optimus was being, but Megatron laughed anyway. “That, at least, is perfectly true,” he said. 

Optimus watched him, that carefully crafted expression of neutrality hiding his emotions as well as the battlemask ever had, waiting for an answer. 

“You cannot expect peace to come from one conversation, Prime,” said Megatron. 

“True. But I wish negotiations, not an instantaneous peace—and this is hardly our only conversation.”

“And you expect all of our inferiors to play nicely while we negotiate? I hardly trust _you_ enough—what of your people? Do you honestly believe that Wheeljack will restrain himself from avenging his fellow Wreckers if Dreadwing should turn his back on him? How long will Arcee be able to tolerate the proximity of Cliffjumper’s killer? This war is not as simple as our personal differences or even politics, Optimus.”

“I will ensure that the Autobots initiate no hostile interactions if you can say the same for the Decepticons,” said Optimus. 

Megatron ex-vented again. What was there to say? They could end the war. There was still a deep longing in his spark for Cybertron, an ache that refused to leave even when flushed with victory. And having Optimus at his side again...would be difficult to give up. 

At worst, they’d go back to fighting. In that case, he was fairly certain that the Decepticons would win. There was nothing to lose. 

“So we continue the ceasefire,” he said, and a small smile curled Optimus’s mouth. 

“And begin negotiations,” he said, and placed a deliberate hand over Megatron’s. 

Megatron grinned and took that as permission, pulling Optimus close against him and pressing claws into sensitive seams between plating. Optimus gasped something like a laugh and then there were fingers working in under the sides of his pelvic plating, surprisingly precise for all their bluntness. 

“These the negotiations you had in mind?” Megatron said, and ventilated involuntarily as Optimus found a particularly sensitive cluster of sensor nodes. 

“Not exactly,” said Optimus. “They are, however, of use. To borrow the human vernacular, laying groundwork.”

“Good,” said Megatron, and catching him firmly around the waist lifted Optimus into his lap. It took more effort than he remembered, even with Optimus pushing off against the berth to help him. They both overbalanced and crashed back onto the berth with Optimus sprawled out over Megatron’s chest. 

“I seem to recall that working better in the past,” said Optimus, rather drily, and Megatron slid his claws under the edges of the pelvic flares and pressed hard against the sensors there. Optimus made a small undignified noise and arched.

Megatron grinned and nibbled at Optimus’s neck cabling, drawing another little noise, working his way along the flares and then up Optimus’s back. Optimus went absolutely limp, and something rather like a purr escaped him, underscored by the click of his interface panel opening. 

“So eager as all that?” said Megatron, and retracted his own panel. Optimus seemed to recover his senses somewhat and pushed himself up so he was sitting atop Megatron, and reached for his cable. Then he hesitated. Megatron gentled his touches to Optimus’s back, concerned that the hesitance stemmed from discomfort. 

And Optimus bent his helm and _licked_ the edge of his port. The touch of a glossa there was utterly strange, arousing without _any_ promise of satisfaction and he caught at Optimus’s helm, moaning as the glossa pressed deeper. It was utterly maddening, and his cable unspooled of its own accord, seeking blindly for Optimus’s port. 

The glossa withdrew. “I believed you mentioned something about eagerness?” said Optimus, static lacing his voice. Megatron shuttered his optics at him, dazed, and Optimus took his cable and pressed it into himself.

Megatron caught at Optimus’s cable before sensation overwhelmed him, the feeling of delicate plates parting around him, clenching tight, the arc of data and charge. He socketed Optimus’s cable into place quickly, thinking only to complete their circuit before he was overwhelmed past cohesive thought. 

And he was. Optimus’s joy was overpowering, shocking in its acuteness, a joy that had little to do with interface and everything with…

Him. Megatron. 

He drew away briefly, shocked beyond measure that Optimus would feel such a thing for him after all this time. But Optimus was entirely sincere. 

He’d wanted this. He’d wanted this for such a very long time, not only the fragging, but the promise of stability. That this might happen again. He had wanted this war over for so long, and now there was _hope_ of that… 

The joy came in great waves, magnifying purely physical pleasure to such an extent that each brought them to the brink of overload. Megatron found himself reciprocating; he had wanted Optimus here again for a long time, too, ever since that Council meeting. Rage had ebbed, regret risen in its place, making his anger all the more bitter. 

Optimus understood, pulled their minds and sparks closer together. It didn’t have to be like this anymore, he felt, and it curled through Megatron’s consciousness, a comforting thing, and then Optimus _did_ something with his port, surged joy again at him, and Megatron tipped over the brink. 

They drifted into recharge together, and for the first time in a long time, they dreamed the same dreams. 

——

It was the next morning.

Starscream had run out of reading material, and wandered into the main room of the Autobot base in hopes of finding something interesting to do. At least he might manage to irritate some of the Autobots. 

Instead he found Megatron and Optimus with their attention on the computer terminal. A careful sidle forward revealed the subject of their attention to be one of the Autobots’ human ‘allies’—Agent Fowler, if he remembered correctly.

_“I have good news and bad news_ ,” Agent Fowler was saying. _“Good news, we’ve completely destroyed MECH’s base. They won’t be getting the resources to repeat this little project—not for a while at least. Bad news, we didn’t find Silas’s body.”_

“How?” demanded Megatron, and Starscream shrank back into the shelter of the doorway with anger and disgust rising in his spark at the mention of the human’s name. How could they not have found the body? How could they be so _incompetent_?

_“We don’t know. We went through the wreckage with a fine toothed comb. Nothing. Either the body was destroyed or someone took it.”_

Starscream snarled despite himself. “Humans,” he said. “Always the weakest link.”

Megatron looked at him. He flinched, snuck out of the room and to the medical bay. Ratchet paid him no heed as he stalked over to the berth and sat. They hadn’t found Silas’s corpse. 

He was dead. Nothing could survive what Megatron had done to him. But he’d wanted to make sure of that, tear the body into bloody rags. Now he could not. He ex-vented, tucked himself up onto the medical berth. The rage in his spark dissipated, the familiar exhaustion overtaking him. Silas was dead, he reminded himself, and the thought calmed him. 

Starscream offlined his optics and curled over on the medical berth, hearing Ratchet clattering away trying to fix one of his tools, the scent of oil and energon and warm plating a comfort, the background hum and touch of EM fields an assurance. He didn’t care whose they were. 

He didn’t care whether he was in Autobot or Decepticon hands. He only cared that there were others around him, that he was free of the humans. That he could speak again, and that there was nothing save a medic’s complaints keeping him where he was.

For the first time in a long time, he felt safe.


End file.
